


He Woke Up in the Wrong Bed

by musicalfreak86



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalfreak86/pseuds/musicalfreak86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch wakes up in the wrong bed, but could the wrong bed really turn out to be the right one?<br/>(Old fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Woke Up in the Wrong Bed

**Author's Note:**

> For the Tumblr Hayffie Challenge #60: "He woke up in the wrong bed."
> 
> I do not own the Hunger Games.

When he wakes up he is still groggy. His head is pounding and his eyes and memory are fuzzy. He often wakes up with his memory of the night before not quite up to par, and usually this is pretty merciful. Not remembering what kind of fool he made of himself or who he vomited on is alright with him, and Effie will just fill him in anyway.

There is a light coming in through the window, and he uses his left arm to shield his face because the cheery sunrise is boring straight through his skull. As he moves he realizes...the window in his room is to the right of the bed...

He thinks his drink and sleep addled mind must be playing tricks on him and slowly removes his arm from over his eyes. Nope, this window is most definitely to the left.

He doesn't panic; this would not be the first time he has wandered into the wrong room while drunk. And no one is yelling at him, so that must be a good sign. In fact, maybe this is simply an empty room. The penthouse is a huge place after all.

Then he realizes that he is covered in blankets and his head is resting on a pillow. He isn't sure how they do things in the Capitol, but he is pretty sure that the bed in an unoccupied room would not be made. And if it were, it would be made so neatly and tightly that in his drunken state he would not have been able to find his way under the covers.

He shifts, feeling that he should probably get up and figure out what's going on, and brushes up against something. Or rather, someone. He swears under his breath and rolls over. And comes face to face with a very blonde woman.

For a moment, he is confused. Did he pick someone up last night? That's very unusual for him, even drunk. And lifting the blankets slightly reveals that they are both fully clothed.

But then memories from the night before begin coming back. And he realizes that he is in bed with none other than Effie Trinket.

As he racks his brain and tries not to even breathe for fear of waking her, he remembers them being up after everyone else had gone to bed. He didn't feel like facing the nightmares quite yet, and she was too afraid to tear her eyes from the television for dear of waking up to dead Tributes.

He had tried to get her to go to bed. Told her that she had been sleeping too little as it was. She told him he had no idea and after looking at her hard, he said he thought he probably did. Then he offered to pour her a drink, and that's where things really begin to get fuzzy.

He remembers that she is an extreme lightweight. One drink and she was tipsy. Two and she was gone. He had never pegged her for a drinker, and he had been right. Her small system was not used to the alcohol, especially as strong as he makes drinks. She would probably wake up feeling much worse than him.

He remembers her telling him what it's like to grow up Capitol and him starting to realize that maybe growing up in luxury _isn't_ all it's cracked up to be. She told him about all the pressures to look good and to keep up with the latest fashions. She told him about how almost everyone in the Capitol is drowning in debt that they will never be able to get out of. She said she is lucky enough as an escort to _set_ the trends, and that paired with the check she gets is enough to keep her out of debt. He was going to make a nasty comment when she began talking about how parents treat their children. About how they are treated like little dolls and how having a child with a bad figure is handled almost as though they have some horrible deformity. She said so many children are surgically altered, but she wasn't. She said everything about her is completely and naturally hers. She blushed and took a large gulp of her drink when his eyes raked over her body.

He remembers her asking what it's really like to go into the Arena, and at that he had to go pour both of them another drink. It's hard for him to talk about, but for some reason he did anyway. She was a much more attentive audience than he expected, and he found himself spilling everything to her. He didn't cry, but he wanted to, and when he had told her everything he could think to tell, there were tears cutting tracks through her immaculate makeup.

She got off the couch without a word and left him sitting there bewildered. He leaned back and nursed his drink, figuring she didn't want him to see her cry.

After several minutes or several hours had passed (he wasn't quite sure), he heard footsteps. He turned around and saw a complete stranger staring back at him. A stranger who seemed so _familiar_.

She had stripped herself of everything Capitol. Her wig was gone, and in its place blonde hair fell down her back. Her face was clean and slightly pink from the fresh scrubbing to rid it of all makeup. She wore a simple tank top and shorts, her pajamas, and her feet were bare. He couldn't do anything but stare.

She padded over to the sofa and sat back down. There were fresh tears still tracking their way down her face, but when she looked at him her gaze was steady. She said he laid himself bare by telling her about his time in the Arena, and she wanted to do the same. He couldn't think of how to respond. So he followed his instinct and kissed her.

She gasped at the unexpected contact but did not resist. She opened her mouth to grant him access and began making these little sounds that drove him mad. He couldn't stop running his hands through her hair. That beautiful, soft, _natural_ hair.

He doesn't remember how they got to her bedroom, just that they got there. Hands roamed over bodies, but clothes stayed on. If they were going to have a first time, he didn't want it to be drunk. That was strange, because he usually wants everything drunk, but not this.

Eventually they both began to lose steam, the alcohol making them both sleepy. So they ended up in each other's arms and that's the last thing he remembers until a sunrise through the window and a pounding head.

He is trying to process these memories and suppress the smile creeping onto his face when the bundle of blankets next to him moves. He doesn't know why his heart is pounding like it is, but he tries not to question it as he rolls over to bravely face the woman next to him. His every instinct is telling him to run for his life, but something keeps him in the bed.

Effie sighs and blinks a few times, trying to bring herself out of her sleep. He tries to ignore the way his heart skips a beat when her blue eyes finally meet his. What is he, a teenager? He shouldn't be feeling this way. But for some reason when she wakes up fully and her eyes focus on him, his heart rate speeds up, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore.

But then her eyes widen and she pulls the blanket up to her chin instinctively. "H-Haymitch," she stutters, and he wants to grin at the blush slowly creeping up over her cheeks. "Oh my God..."

"Good morning to you too, Sweetheart," he replies. He knows what's going through her mind, and he could ease her suffering right now and assure her that her virtue is safe. But he is having too much fun watching her squirm, and the blush he is being treated to is well worth it. He must remember to make her blush more often.

Her eyes shift, as though she herself is contemplating making a run for it. But she stays put. "Haymitch...did...did we...?" He sighs and rolls his eyes at her.

"Check yourself, Princess," he says, and she eyes him for a second longer before taking a peek underneath the blankets. She sighs in relief.

"Oh thank God," she says. "For a moment I thought..." Her thought trails off at the look on his face.

"Glad to know you're so relieved," he says bitterly, his little joke having backfired. "I'll just be going now, so you can...paint your face or whatever it is you do in the mornings." He throws the blankets off and starts to stand up. But he is stilled by a hand on his arm.

"Don't," she says. She sits up and the blankets fall away. As irritated as she has made him, he can't help but appreciate her form in just her pajamas. She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I just...this isn't what I was expecting to wake up to, that's all." Her eyes meet his again, and there's that familiar skip in his chest. She glances at the clock. "We don't have to be anywhere for a few hours. Stay?"

As hurt as he felt (And he doesn't even know why he was hurt in the first place. Why should he care?), he lays back down beside her and pulls the blankets back up around them. She seems nervous to initiate any sort of physical contact, instead lying as far away from him as possible in the bed. He thinks this is funny, remembering the roaming hands and lips from the night before.

So he initiates, bringing a hand up to gently stroke across her cheekbone. He hears himself whisper, "Don't paint your face," and it isn't until then that he realizes how much he really does like how she looks natural. He never thought he would find her particularly attractive, but seeing her this way, looking like a normal human being...he can't take his eyes away.

"I have to," she replies, closing her eyes at the contact. "What would people say if—"

"Who the hell cares what other people think?" he asks her, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows that it matters more than simply what people think. He sighs, assuming that he has put his foot in it yet again, and that he is probably about to be kicked out into the hallway. He can't read the look in her eyes. It's a sort of hard, determined look, and he braces himself for the explosion.

But instead, she lunges forward and kisses him. The action takes him completely off-guard, but he doesn't question it. He wraps an arm around her tiny waist and pulls her closer, flush against his body, head to toe. Before he knows what's happening, she is on top of him. She breaks the kiss to look at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I wish I could think more like you," she says quietly. He can tell that their conversations from the night before are starting to come back to her.

"No you don't," he responds, and pulls her back down against him.

They spend the rest of the morning cuddled in each other's arms, stealing kisses and each enjoying the feel of the other's body against theirs. After a while, Effie drifts off again. Haymitch stays awake, holding her against him and relishing in the feel of holding her. He knows that this moment can't last forever, but he can pretend.


End file.
